Der Phönix
by emerald otter
Summary: Ludwig dies in the end.


An interpretation of _The Metamorphosis _by Franz Kafka. Takes place post-WWI.

* * *

der Phönix.

.

Ludwig Edelstein awakens from troubled dreams to find himself in his bed, the same as ever. Or so he initially thinks. There is nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary, that is. He leans forward and he stretches and he bends his legs and he lets out a wide yawn. Casting a sidelong look at his alarm clock, it is only then that frantic emotions strike him.

He should have left one and a half hours ago.

Now he is getting quite upset and cannot fathom what could possibly make him sleep in until, heavens, seven in the morning. He is habitually an early riser. The alarm is set at the highest possible decibel. His room is always cold and sheets thin at best. Getting up is generally no problem for one such as him. He has made sure of this observation, has expected this as he expects everything in his world because nothing shall fall out of place.

Rapping on the door. He restrains a groan. "Ludwig?" comes the concerned voice. "Ludwig? Are you in there?"

He opens his mouth and

476.924.1077.1155.1190.1220.1226.1312.1356.1440.1452.1486.1495.1516.1523.1555.1564.1618.1648.1683.1740.1795.1806.1814.1815.1871.1914.

finds he cannot speak. He opens his mouth and finds he cannot speak. This, of course, is most disconcerting.

Finally, he manages: "I... Yes. Yes, Mother." He must articulate slowly, for fear all the strange thoughts will come spewing forth from his lips like seafoam.

"You don't sound well. What are you doing here? I thought you were to catch your train an hour ago." Elizaveta's voice rises and falls and comes muddled to him, like it is traversing a great distance by horse, by carriage, by ship.

Well. Well, he can catch the, uh, yes, there's a nine o'clock train scheduled, but by this time his supervisor will have reported to the Head Clerk about his absence at the station and now, oh, now they could demote him and... And...

"I will be out shortly."

He hears footsteps. She presumably leaves. But, of course, "Bro."

His head lifts toward the door to the right. "Gilbert."

Gilbert, pleased he finally has something to triumph over his perfectionist sibling, asks, "Why aren't you selling your ugly clocks, Lud?"

To which Ludwig eloquently replies, "I don't see you working, either."

"Well, uh, I have important things! Real important things!"

"I'm sure."

Neither is convinced by the other.

"Hey. It's not like you to do something cool. Are you sick?"

He rolls his eyes. "No. I am perfectly fine." 18061806180618061806. Mantra. Just stop.

"Ooh," and his brother makes this immature noise with a sharp 'ke' trailing into a hiss. Ludwig has no idea where he developed the habit from. His brother, the eldest of the two, makes up for his uselessness with pure innovation in the art of aggravating every household member, "Luddy's sick! Poor widdle Luddy's all sick!"

This is what spurs him to swing his legs over the edge of his minimalist bed and stand upon unsteady legs, waves of nausea (not really, just _numbers_ crowding in his mind, his stomach, each with an association, each) knocking against his vessel of a body as he rolls with each blow.

His thoughts feel . Interrupted, almost. Like there are too many things crowding in. ["the state of the worker is poor."] He doesn't feel like himself. Everything is hazy. He's getting awful concerned. Perhaps he truly is sick. Yet, he hasn't had a sick day in the five years of his found profession.

And it's funny, truly ["the worker deserves better."] funny, because even though this is so unexpected, he feels as though it's been planned. Just by someone other than him.

["the worker is refused this and made poor because of thevandalstroopshessianswome nrussiansjewssouthernersfore ignershomosexuasfrenchrevolu tionists catholicsromanigypsiesvilesc umbourgeoisieillegitimatechi ldrenprotestantsimmigrantfem inistscommunistsupperclassge ographicalfactorsfae**unjustconditions**."]

He is too dizzy to continue.

The thud must have alerted Gilbert something was truly amiss, for he spoke, "Ludwig. No, really, are you okay in there?"

He shakes his head and he stares at the much closer than before floorboards and shrugs. He then recalls that Gilbert is behind a door and thus cannot see his indication. "Of course, Gilbert. I will be out shortly." Words are like cotton in his mouth. He must spit them out with great effort.

If his brother is concerned any further by this, he does not say. Indeed, Gilbert leaves Ludwig alone after the released declaration. This gives Ludwig much needed time to concentrate on proper walking skills and how to open a door (twist the wrist, snap their bones, in all honesty did you expect any less in this profession?) and other simple, miscellaneous menial tasks.

He stumbles into the kitchen.

962.

He rubs his face, comes in contact with beard stubble and dried spit from the night. He must look like a wreck right now, staggering in with his pajamas and hair askew for display to his poor family.

Roderich is the first to speak. "Ludwig. I thought you had an appointment this morning." He always refers with "Sie." Always. Makes Ludwig feel stiff and hollow and disconnected right now. (I'm your son. I'm your son. We are not strangers. I am your son. Deutscheswörterbuchwaswritte n in1808formingadefinitive ifincompleteatthetimedetaili ng thefundamentalsofthegerman languageandiswidelyrevered asasuccessdespitenotbeingthe d efiningaccomplishmentof diegebrüder grimm)

He nods. "I did."

"Well?"

"I missed it."

The man's brows furrow and Ludwig can feel it, _feel it, _the haughty thoughts that buzz in his skull, the condescending berating he so wishes to deliver, the-

"Interesting. And I... Are those new nightclothes?"

Ludwig looks down at his shorts. "Oh, well, yes. I threw out the old pair when-"

"No. No, I stitched those up and put them back in your room." Roderich folds up his newspaper with much grace and places it on the table. "Someone needs to save money in this house. Has it occurred to you that you are the only one bringing in a reasonable source of income?"

He opens his mouth.

"Of course it hasn't. And here you go sleeping in. You could very well lose your job, you know."

Silence. Gilbert stops putting jam on his toast, Elizaveta stops embroidering her pillow. They both look up. Ludwig's expression is blank. No, no it hadn't occurred to him.

He opens his mouth and no words escape alive.

Roderich is unruffled, however. "I'm disabled, Ludwig. I cannot find work. You are far too foolhardy with your life decisions. What you choose affects the rest of us as well."

Shame creeps down his spine.

Why _did_ he sleep in this morning? Oh, why?

"I am sick. I am calling in sick this morning." His words sound unrelated, as though he is not speaking a sentence.

Elizaveta comes to life again. "Yes, darling. He sounded very under the weather when I got him this morning. I have heard that this bug has been going around lately."

Roderich gives Ludwig a critical glance before reaching for his newspaper once more. "Well, if that is the reason, you'd better make haste in contacting your employers, Ludwig. Let's hope you get better."

He nods, hearing his neck creak.

("Du, Gregor!" rief die Schwester mit erhobener Faust und eindringlichen Blicken.)

Ludwig moves to the phone and he asks the operator for the office and its name and dread just prowls around his stomach. Never having called in sick, his employers have reason to be suspect of misdoing. Oh, he hopes they do not come to his residence. Oh, he hopes.

"Hello? Yes. I- Yes. Yes, this is. Calling in sick, that is. I- Well, I- No, I understand. Real important, of course, I- Yes. I just- I'd rather have it not, but- Yes. Yes. Okay. Yes. Nine-hundred sixty-two. I- What? No, no, I didn't say that. No, I don't know what that means. Sorry. Okay. Yes. Well, yes. Okay. Yes, thank you. Goodbye."

He hangs up. Gilbert is looking at him. He leers at his older brother, mouthing, 'And why can't _you_ get a job?'

Gilbert just grins.

Ludwig returns stiffly to the dining table. "Well?" Elizaveta asks.

"The Head Clerk is coming over."

"Well, he'll just see how sick you are and let you go!"

"It was a very important transaction they were relying on with me."

"Ludwig."

He looks up to see her concerned face. "What?"

"What are you doing?"

He looks down to see his hands wringing a cloth napkin. "Stress," he says. His hands do not stop.

Now Roderich is giving him an awful strange look.

"May I be excused?"

"Of course, dear," she says. "You probably need your rest. We'll tell you when the Head Clerk arrives, okay?"

He nods jerkily, walking with an uneven stride back to his door.

[what did you expect, honey? Honestly? What did you expect? It's about the rats, isn't it, now? pestilence, ugly, sick]

What rats, what

He fears he is going insane.

"Ludwig?"

"What!" he snaps maybe a few tones too loud, perhaps. Yes.

Gilbert recoils, but Ludwig does not turn to see him. He can tell, though. Gilbert's shadow is reeling back back back back and so Gilbert must be following in suit. Suit. Yes.

Ace of Spades.

"Just, uh, well. Mother said I should check up on you, me bein' the brother and all, so uh, what's eating away at your sissy brain?"

Gilbert. Of course, he's too proud to admit or even _feign_ concern. Far too proud. Well, Ludwig is far too distracted at the moment with this -crowding- sensation to hide his frustration so he just grunts, "Nothing. Get out."

*The Thirty Years' War brought such devastation to the area it was fought in, present-day _, that about 25-40 percent of the population was killed. The male population was reduced to almost half of its pre-war status. The Swedish army alone destroyed one third of all _ towns. Pestilence was also a common source of death at the time. Troop movements spread these diseases further, making a problem previous to the war more pressing than ever.*

Gilbert has gotten out by now. And Ludwig has found himself upon his bed, back-down and still in his ridiculous pajamas, waste of money, waste of

Coherence. Return.

He swallows thickly, feels the way his esophagus closes and hears the fleshy noise resound in his skull as peristalsis takes over. He hears blood rush in his eyes, feels his fingers curl into his palms as they relax, knows his eyes are dilating in the dim lighting of his room, notices the little sparks of pain as his hair gets tugged by the sheets when he shifts his neck without lifting, listens to the creak in the neck as it bends.

The human body is truly disgusting.

and writhing thing.-

Pathetic could be another illustrative term.

some bodies must be more efficient than others, surely.-

He sits up, and though he is young and strong and twenty-three, he feels so very tired. Sick. He is very sick right now. we'remakingyoubettertrustus. The Head Clerk is coming soon. Words stick in his larynx and stay there for 1871 years and he can't help it, not really.

His eyes trail to the photos tacked onto the wall about his desk. A recent cut-out from a magazine of a woman sitting upright, arm disappearing into her furred boa is framed and placed to the left of a picture of his old uniform from his days in the army with that ridiculous hat upon his head. He had been meaning to remove that one for quite some time and put up something more visually appealing. Perhaps a picture of family or landscape. (venumimpelzwaswrittenbyleopo ldvonsacher-masochmakeofthatwhatyouwill thehatisapickelhaubewhichwas firstusedbytheprussianmilita ry in1842)

A soft knock on the door. It is half-open already, so he clears his throat and stands. "Yes?"

Elizaveta slides through the space, momentarily blocking the blade of light that cuts through the room from the foyer. She is uneasy. "Ludwig."

"Yes? What is it?"

"The Head Clerk is here."

"I'll be right out." And he means it. He does. He just needs to stop the numbers and the writhing and the pickelhaubes for a moment. Ludwig collects himself a moment more and follows her into the kitchen.

The Head Clerk truly is a miserable man, a Brit with pasty complexion and unruly eyebrows. His patois is that awful, grinding Yorkshire dialect of legend. And in it, Ludwig hears the toll of the bells during a funeral dirge.

"Herr Edelstein, no, I simply must not partake in- Oh, yes, there you are, Ludwig."

"Head Clerk," he greets him in return.

"Are you alright? Your voice sounds awful strange."

'I am very sick,' he wants to tell him, but then he thinks, well, well, I. I'll just go to work. I can fix this. I can most certainly fix this. "I can. I can go right now, sir. I can go to work, please, I'll just-"

Elizaveta comes forward. "Yes, he's sounded like that all morning."

There's a winding feeling in his mind where he's not sure if he's truly there or not and when he blinks again he finds

SHIT.

His brow furrows as he recoils. What the-

(Ludwig awakens to find that he has always been a giant cockroach.)

im going crazy.

straussbeethovenwagnermendel ssohn brahmsschumannwieckbaumfelde r

what the heck?

It takes him a moment to return to himself.

Now the Head Clerk is staring him with an awful queer expression. The whole family is. "Was there any particular reason you just did that?" Roderich. Sie. Always.

"Do what?"

He never specifies, rather, opting to resume his scanning of the newspaper. Ludwig is getting scared now. Ludwig is feeling very scared. It's that manic sort of bottomless pit in the stomach with the creeping up the spine accompanied by a swooping of blockage in the throat, diving down his Adam's apple.

Ludwig swallows. "Sick," Elizaveta, dear Elizaveta, tells the Head Clerk. "He is very sick."

Gilbert is giving him the most intent of looks. Beloved brother, oh, what troubles you so? Is it a fault of mine? How shall I reconcile? Forgive me, is all I ask.

"He's going to his room, right now, in fact," dearest Gilbert says, not taking his eyes off of Ludwig. He rises and takes the larger, four years his junior however, man by the elbow as one would take an unstable antique. A relic. Is he a relic? 962

He certainly feels like it.

When they arrive at his room, Gilbert turns him around and hisses at him, "Just what stunt are you trying to pull?"

"I do not understand."

"Like hell you don't."

"Language, brother."

"Shut up." He casts a look over his shoulder, in the direction of the kitchen. "You can't just waltz in there, saying stupid things like that about Friedrich the Second was the first king known as King _of_ Prussia rather than King _in_ Prussia, such were his numerous and impressive achievements for the empire. Man lives consciously for himself, but is an unconscious instrument in the attainment of the historic, universal aims of humanity."

He blinks. "I... You... What?" Surely, he must have heard wrong.

"Look, I know something's up, I can see it. If it's that woman from Vienna, I can understand, but you shouldn't put our lives on the line! I just... It... The historic ascent of humanity, taken as a whole, may be summarized as a succession of victories of consciousness over blind forces-in nature, in society, in man himself."

"Gilbert-"

"A man is but the product of his thoughts. What he thinks, he becomes."

"I just-"

"A nation's culture resides in the hearts and in the soul of its people."

Ludwig is back-back-backing away. "AN APPEASER IS ONE WHO FEEDS A CROCODILE, **HOPING IT WILL EAT HIM LAST.**"

"Gilbert, please stop it, stop it, please," he begs in desperation.

Gilbert is aghast in confusion. "Saukerl," he snaps. "I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals."

He slams the door in his brother's face, his breath coming out in wheezy gasps, hitching. Oh, vile, foul-mouthed creature! Spew lies, lies, the worst thing is that half of them are true, oh goodness, he needs to lie down.

Lies, damn lies, and statistics.

The death of one man is a tragedy, the death of a million is a sta-

He presses his face into his hands. Coherence. Return. An appeaser is one who feeds- Please, just... Coherence. Right now. Back. 1871. Back. Ludwig feels sick. He tastes vomit in his mouth and swallows it. He takes a deep breath, then another, pushes his hair out of his eyes. Fine. Fine. He is fine. But Remarque made the statement and it was attributed to Sta- No. Stop. Stop. Calm Down. You are no Paul Bäumer. You are no Paul Bäumer. It only seems like it some days. The war. The war. And from Vienna, you saw her, you did _nothing_, you stood and you stared, jaw agape, and you did absolutely **nothing**. You knew her brother, you saw him die too, you saw Zwingli die in your own damn arms in that war, that-

War will come over some damn thing in the Balkans.

Clairvoyance. That was Bismarck, you know. I'm sure you do, Westen, I'm really sure. You wrote a report on him in your seventh year of life (or, well, "seventh" to your memory.)

His mother is knock-knocking on the door. "Ludwig? Can I come in?"

"Sure," he manages.

The crash will come twenty years after I'm gone.

Bismarck said this. 1900. Pretty accurate. Pretty-

The door opens. She walks in and she is not timid, no, his mother is never timid, but she is cautious. "Ludwig, what happened out there?"

"I don't know," he says.

"Are you really sick?"

"I don't know," he says.

"I'm worried. The Head Clerk left here in quite a hurry. Will you be able to get another job, do you think? Roderich's still on disability, but that won't support us forever, you know."

"I don't know," he says.

"I could get a job cleaning or something." She looks out the doorway now, wistful. "I wanted to join the army, when young. Thought I was as good as man. But, in all honesty, I don't know if I'd much like servile work."

"I don't know," he says.

"Ludwig, are you sure you're okay? You're-"

"**I don't know**," he says.

She shuts her mouth. He isn't sure what he's doing right now that's bothering her so. Ludwig feels just rotten right now. He's scared, so he says, "There is something very wrong with me." He doesn't hear any reply.

When he looks up, she's gone.

Things around the house begin to change, after that. His family won't speak to him. They usher him into his room. He receives his meals there. No one will look him in the eye. He never had exactly welcomed that sort of (confrontation) attention, but now it is just unnerving to not have it.

When he does manage to come out (doorknobs are hard, you know, when all he does is eat and shove furniture around and dream about times he didn't live in), he finds the house in a strange state. Everything is in a different place. And when he stumbles into the kitchen, blinking at the light, he hears screams.

His father hurls an apple right at his head. It hurts.

Turns his neck, he catches sight of the father. The man is out of his wheelchair. He is wearing a uniform of some sort, perhaps of a mail courier. He has a stern look on his bespectacled face. He says something, but it comes out garbled and perverse.

Ludwig opens his own mouth, brow furrowed in nothing but concern for the father, but all that comes out is _numbers_.

The father hurls another apple at him. It misses.

Ludwig retreats back into his room, scurries back and closes the door. He hides and he tries not to cry only to realize he has no reason to do so in the slightest. He is not the least bit wet. The father hates him. So be it.

Gilbert comes in after that. "Ludwig," he says. His voice is bitter. He is tired. "Ludwig. I am so very sorry, but you startled Father. The house must be clean, for we are having some very important guests tonight. We are very poor. They will help us."

"Gilbert! Gilbert, get out of there! **Get out of that room! **You are never to go in that room again! Do you understand? Never again!" Gilbert cringes at that, like some kicked dog, not like the Gilbert Ludwig knows at all.

Ludwig should feel moved by pity, but he does not. He simply mumbles some numbers in false sympathy. Christ. Christ. He really _has_ lost touch with reality. He's gone right insane. His family has every reason to be ashamed of him, lock him up. He's nuts. He doesn't have a job. He wants to die. (But you had many opportunities to die before, Ludwig, you had _so many opportunities_ before, to die for your precious empire, people, culture, damn nationalism, damn patriotism, damn damn damn it all.)

They hire a man to clean Ludwig's room. He scares Ludwig, people scare Ludwig, the kind he can touch, so he hides under his bed when he comes. The man always sings and smiles and laughs when he cleans Ludwig's room. Ludwig's heart is heavy and sagging already and when he sees the man, it aches so terribly. People. Good people, nice people. He likes people. He misses people. Selling cuckoo clocks is very appealing right now.

"I'm Feliciano, by the way," the man says on the sixth day. "You can come out any time you want, mister! I know you're under there. It's okay. I won't mind. You could be very, very ugly, but I doubt you're scary at all. You seem nice!"

Ludwig _is_ ugly. And he smells horrible. He hasn't bathed in weeks. His body is like one giant sore. It's horrible. He rips out patches of his own hair in his excitement sometimes. He hasn't shaved. His clothes rubbed raw against his skin a week ago, he hated it, so so much, hated being reminded of where he was, what he was, and he threw them out the window. (You'd steal the clothes off the dead.)

"Is this a picture of you? In the uniform? You're handsome, I'd say. I'd like to talk to you sometime, mister. Makes this a little less boring, you know? But I guess it's fun just to chat with you like this, too. You don't mind, do you?"

Ludwig likes Feliciano. Ludwig likes it when Feliciano talks. Ludwig doesn't think about numbers when Feliciano's around. It's grounding, the humiliation of being faced with living in his own filth, Feliciano's incessant chattering. Ludwig says, "I like you."

Or he tries, at least.

Feliciano cocks his head to the side. "Hm. That was… Interesting, mister. Are you a mathematician? Oh! Oh, maybe you're like one of those people who speak in code! Are you a spy? Do you have information? Can I play? I wanna play!" In his excitement, he's dropped his duster on the floor. As he bends down to pick it up, he peers curiously at Ludwig. Ludwig shies away further, back against the wall. "Ve. Okay, then. We'll play some other time, mister. I don't mind! You just tell me next time you want to play!"

Ludwig's throat closes up and his face does this weird twitch. He closes his eyes. Laments every failure. Can't even talk to the most approachable person he's ever met in his life. Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.

When Feliciano leaves, Ludwig truly sobs for the first time since he's changed, chest heaving and gasping, fluids running all over his face. He can't. He just can't. Not anymore. Not anything anymore.

The next time his brother throws a meal in his room, he leaves it untouched, distraught. He listens to voices speaking, talking about the present, the _present_, not the past or the future or any damn crazy thing. Ludwig can't talk about the weather. Ludwig can't talk to anybody about anything. Ludwig is stuck with these damn numbers and people who aren't in the world.

Ludwig sees people in his mind, sees generals and kings and activists and doctors and authors and his heart clenches and he falls in love with each and every one of them, again and again and again. Every night. Every hour. Agonizes over them, why he can't save them all, why they get hurt, because he knows them so intimately, so deeply that it pains him. I love you. I love you so much. 1806, I love you. Leave them alone.

But then Ludwig hears it. And it is beautiful.

His brother is playing a violin. (Violin Sonata (in E-flat major) by Richard Strauss, to be precise. First movement. No piano accompaniment, which makes it feel a little lacking, he has to admit. Composed in 1887-8.) It's beautiful. It's beautiful. Something he wants to touch or taste, just hold in some fashion. Ludwig creeps to the door, opens it a touch, peering out.

His brother has a look of utter concentration on his face, an artist, a real artist, making something wonderful and real and how did Ludwig never know his brother was capable of this? He never did this when Ludwig was around. He was always loathe to train on violin. Said he hated it. (Imagine when he gets to the third movement. God, how amazing, to see him manage it all. But still, no piano. Half the song is missing. Not good.)

It is now that Ludwig notices that his brother is not alone in the warm foyer. The parents are there, as well, as are three men. How strange. All are dressed in foreign clothing. A large man with a calm smile taps his finer in time with the tempo, donning a thick scarf. Beside him sits a smaller man, spectacles glinting in the light, far more interested in his unlit cigarette than the music. A long-haired blond languishes in his own respective chair close by, eyes closed, almost asleep.

His brother's violin thrills him, however, makes him feel alive and well and not so bone-tired and dusty with lack of eating, bruise pulsing on his head from where the father had struck him. Unconsciously, he begins to creep into the room, in an effort to hear better.

His brother purses his lips, brow furrowing, as he stares at his music stand. He begins a series of with eighth notes punctuated by sixteenths. Half note. Eighths. Dotted quarter. Eighths.

"Herr Edelstein!" cries the middle man, to the father, without wasting any more words, at Ludwig. The violin falls silent. Everyone turns to him. Ludwig stills, stricken. He opens his mouth. No words come out.

The father runs forward, taking action. "Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Perhaps it would be better for you all to go to your rooms!"

"What the heck is-"

"Never mind, Herr Jones, never mind. Can my son get you anything? Are you hungry? Please, calm down." Damned idiot, Ludwig can't help but think, yammering and sputtering, trying to appease everyone. An appeaser is one-

The long-haired blond takes a step toward him. Ludwig's shoulders rise defensively. His eyes are interested. He's looking Ludwig in the eye. It's all Ludwig can do not to scream. 1616-1648 marked the Thirty Years' War, which was fought primarily in present-day _, resulting in the Peace of Westphalia among other drastic changes in the political climate of Europe, such as derailing the Habsburg supremacy, decentralizing the Holy Roman Empire, and starting the Franco-Spanish War. The war was a struggle between Catholic and Protestant nations, which started in the Holy Roman Empire, though there are many causes of the actual conflict. Perhaps stranger yet, France, a predominately Catholic nation, sided with the Protestants. Ludwig finds this interesting to note.

The big man stands up, frowning. "Herr Edelstein. How long were we rooming next to…that?" His voice is soft, calm.

Spectacled man glances at him. "Come off it, Ivan. I'm not too concerned with that. I just know I want to get out of here as soon as possible."

The long-haired blond is two feet away from Ludwig now. Ludwig's skin itches. He shivers and quakes and cringes away. "What's your name?" he asks, voice utterly unaffected by the shock of his fellows.

Ludwig. My name is Ludwig. I am Ludwig Edelstein. I AM LUDWIG. THAT IS WHO I AM. But Ludwig can just whisper sounds and he can only stare wide at this man. "I am _," he finally says. Paul Bäumer. Why did I just think that. Stop it.

A brow quirks. "Oh," he says. A chuckle comes out of him. "Well, in that case, I suppose you could call me 'France' if that's the game you're playing."

It's not a game, he wants to argue. It's not. And I have no idea what I said, but it definitely wasn't Ludwig. Why didn't I say Ludwig. What is wrong with me. I'm hungry. I'm so damn hungry. I feel cold. Oh, right, I'm naked. I'm fucking naked. And I smell horrible. I'm ugly. I hate me. I hate me. I hate me.

His brother's been standing there, lost, for some time, but now he's shoving his violin and bow into the mother's arms, ignoring her asthmatic breathing. He walks to Ludwig, eyes burning and jaw set and he reaches up and he takes Ludwig by the scruff of the neck and drags him out of the room, sits him down hard on a kitchen chair.

Ludwig can only stare up at him.

"Ludwig," is all his brother says, tight and constrained. He then turns and walks out.

Ludwig sits there, hears muffled yelling, a scuffle, more yelling, conversation, muttering, murmuring, doors slamming, bugs crawling up the walls, money lining the walls because it's not much good for anything else, ninety-five theses tacked on the wall, lists, demands, shit, shit, more ugly shit. Shit oozing down the walls. Smells horrible. Ludwig closes his eyes and leans his head back, tries to make it go away.

Despite the Holy Roman Empire being a large force in Europe, it was more or less a loose defining term held over several independent nations, such as Bavaria, Saxony, Brandenburg, Hesse, and, in particular, Austria. Austria was a large political force in the Holy Roman Empire, held by the House of Habsburg, which also included Bohemia and Hungary.

"Ludwig!" His eyes flew open, finding the father before him.

"Don't, don't, please don't," the mother groans.

"It's a problem and it needs to be addressed," the brother says.

Ludwig sits quiet and still. "Go to your room," the brother says. "Now. We need to discuss your future in this house."

So Ludwig gets up, gingerly, and sets about turning around, turning, turning, it's hard, see, when his body is one large sore and it aches and claws at him and bursts (oozes white puss all over the floor) and he limps his way back to his room. He hears the brother begin speaking, "My dear parents," hands slamming on the table, "things cannot go on like this. Perhaps you don't realize this, but I do. I won't utter my brother's…"

The door clicks shut behind Ludwig. What now, he thinks dumbly. What now, indeed. He sits down on the floor, back leaning against his bed, as he stares at the pictures on his wall, him in a uniform. A uniform. A Goddamn uniform. World war. There was an actual world war. The entire _world_ had a _war_. And he was in it. And he had the audacity to live. His own country didn't live, and he did.

And the rats? He ate the rats in the trenches. That's the rats. And of course it's about them.

My name is Ludwig. My name is Ludwig Edelstein. I was a cuckoo clock salesman. I would wake up at four every morning and go to work. I never had a sick day. Then I had one. And now here I am.

2,476,897 people died in your country and you had the audacity to live. You little shit.

Maybe this is retribution, he thinks, feverishly. And sweet Lily Zwingli from Vienna, she died, didn't she? She died in the war. Sad. So sad. Not fair. He should have died in the war. He should have died with his country, not out of some patriotic obligation, no, none of that shit, but because it would have been fitting. Ludwig shouldn't still be living when an empire is gone and a republic is stumbling drunkenly down the streets at French insistence.

He stares the pictures, stares hard and thinks, What now. What now indeed. He makes a motion to get up only to find he cannot. It doesn't bother him too much. He's tired, anyways. Very tired. And he feels comfortable. Sore as hell and his face hurts, but comfortable. Aches are lessening. He lets himself tumble to the side, grimacing when his head smacks off the floor. Whatever.

My name is. My name is. I was something.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

(it's all in the past, to be quite frank, anyways, paul)

(so let's write it like that)

When Feliciano arrived the next morning, slamming doors everywhere in his enthusiasm (hard to get a decent night of sleep with that boy running around, honestly, and Roderich tried to take a firm hand with him, but it just never seemed to work), he found something strange when he peeked into Mister's room: Mister.

Barely containing a shout of delight, he crept inside. The man stank like something awful, Feliciano had to admit, and he looked oily and dirty, nasty lesions decorating his arms and collarbone. A huge dusty bruise covered half his face. Feliciano sank down next to him. "Mister," he said. "Hey. Mister." He prodded at his cheek.

A furrowed brow.

"Mister? Mister, wake up."

An eye opened a sliver to regard him.

"Mister, it's me, Feliciano. Hi!"

"Oh."

"Are you alright?"

A shrug.

Feliciano's smile flagged a bit. "Is something wrong?"

"Something is different," the man said.

"Oh?"

"Yes." And he sat up, fixing Feliciano with a measured stare. "I plan on dying within the next hour, if you will excuse me."

"I… What?"

Another shrug. "If I am to fulfill that which I am set to be, I must shed the shell of mortal mentality." Then he got up, walked to his wardrobe, and set out clothing with which to dress himself.

Feliciano didn't say anything to that. He didn't know what to reply with.

"You must think me mad. Very well. I understand that. That's fine. You may leave now."

"Numbers?" he finally found himself sputtering. "You… You spoke in numbers before."

The man waved a hand at that, as though trying to brush it aside. "All a matter of the transformation. Remembering things. Think of it as a chrysalis stage. I was quite miserable, I must say. Or, well, Ludwig was."

"Ludwig?"

"The body."

"…Oh."

The man coughed forcefully. "If you'll _excuse me_."

Speak of suicide troubled Feliciano, however. "So you're just going to lay down and die? Just like that?" In a suit and tie?

He scowled, rolling his eyes. Feliciano felt stupid, despite not knowing what was at fault with what he said. "Not a _physical_ death. Ludwig. Ludwig needs to die. He's almost dead. You woke me up."

"You're…killing yourself in your sleep?"

"_I'm_ not Ludwig. I am _."

Feliciano was quiet for a moment, puzzled. "That's a country."

The man slapped his face in exasperation. "I am leaving for the train station. I will be gone in an hour. From there, I am leaving for Berlin. If you accompany me, I will explain everything."

Feliciano stood up, brow furrowing. "I."

"If you really want to leave with me, you will tell Ludwig's family that he is dead. Then you will head for the train station." And with that, the countryman straightened his tie and walked out the door.

Feliciano looked around, took in the lonely walls, broken up by only two pictures, one of a decadently cruel woman and the other a boy in an army uniform, the window that looked right out at the brick wall of another apartment building, the alarm clock, the wobbly bed, and turned around and left the room.

He thought about his brother. His brother was in Spain working for some company man. His brother was going to kill him if he knew Feliciano left without a second thought, left a paying job to run off with a "republic." (A crazy man, really.)

Feliciano looked at the Edelsteins' bedroom, where they have separate twin beds set up across the room from each other. No pictures in that room at all. Then he looked to where Gilbert's room used to be, adjacent to the man's. The house was cold. It was always cold, though. And no pictures on any of the walls.

"It's dead!"

Ten seconds later, the Edelsteins' door wrenched open, Elizaveta staring at him, eyes wide. "What?"

"It's dead," he said. "Done for."

She clasped a hand to her mouth, scrunching her eyes together. Roderich appeared behind her, face neutral.

"Dead?" said Elizaveta, looking at Feliciano, although she could have easily investigated herself.

"The thing? It's gone?"

Feliciano turned around to find Gilbert, looking out from the living room, where he had been sleeping for the last month. "It's gone."

Gilbert's face broke out into a wide smile. "Thank God. Oh, thank God." He crossed himself.

Elizaveta approached the door to the man's room, hesitant.

"It's gone, ma'am," Feliciano repeated. "Gone for good. Gone. Finito. Done."

Roderich was very insistent on paying Feliciano extra for removing the body, which he eventually accepted, not feeling entirely right about it all. "Nonsense, nonsense," Roderich had said. "I certainly wasn't going to touch it."

"Hm," was all Feliciano could manage.

"Are you sure you can't stay?" Elizaveta had asked.

"No, I've, ah, I've got a train to catch, actually. I'm leaving for the city."

"The city?"

"Mmhm."

"With who?"

"A friend."

Smiles from the family. "Well, we certainly wish you much luck, Mr. Vargas."

He nods in return, hand on the doorknob. "Of course, of course. And I to you! Goodbye! Farewell! Have a good day!" And he slid out the door, breathing a sigh of relief. Then he made for the train station to meet with Mr. Weimar. Or, well, _. The republic. The strange countryman. What a story!

When the three tenants rose from Gilbert's old room, they did not find breakfast ready for them. "Hey. Hey. What's going on here?" Mr. Jones demanded.

"We want you out of our house," Roderich replied.

"What?"

"Get out," he said more forcefully.

"Just what do you mean by that?" Mr. Bonnefoy asked, incredulous.

"Exactly what I said. Get out. Now. Immediately."

Mr. Jones stared at him for a moment, searchingly, before shrugging. "We'll be leaving then, I suppose."

"Yes."

They watched the men grab their belongings and descend down the stairs, feeling like a great weight had been lifted from their lives. The invalid gone and that strange cleaning boy gone and now the tenants.

"Well," Roderich said, limbs feeling a little weak, "let bygones be bygones, I suppose. Come. We'll give our notice in a week. For now, let's go for a trip. A celebration, if you will."

Gilbert smiled at this, nodded, but Elizaveta just stared at Ludwig's old room.

The thing that had been Ludwig was dead.

They could not have been happier.

* * *

The train went through the countryside to the city and back. It was very nice, staring at the landscapes, though Elizaveta had some reservations. Ludwig may have been gone long before this day, but she still felt jarred. She had lost a son.

She felt like she was going crazy. It was almost as though she was still seeing him, a disheveled young man in a suit staring out at the countryside with a look akin to adoration, shy smile gracing his lips. When a boy queerly resembling their cleaning boy plopped down next to him and starting speaking, she felt entirely disoriented. She wrenched her eyes away.

"You're getting older now, Gilbert," Roderich was saying. "Why, I'd have to say you're more than ready for marriage."

"Do you really think so?"

"Certainly."

Gilbert was horribly injured early in the war. Gilbert was sent home, sickly and with a permanently weak immune system, disallowed from fighting. Elizaveta remembered relief at this. Then horror at her youngest, fresh out of school, running to the trenches. He had wanted to be a doctor or a historian or something grand. She and Roderich had approved. When he returned from the war, he had no ambition whatsoever.

Indeed, Ludwig may have been gone long before this day.

But Elizaveta agreed with Roderich that Gilbert seemed to have a sort of vivacity around him now, healthy and in his prime. It wouldn't take too long to find a good wife for him. And it was like a confirmation of their new dreams and excellent intentions that at the end of their journey their son sprang to his feet first and stretched his young body.

.

.

.

.


End file.
